In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o' clock in the morning, day after day.

In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited - they went there.

The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.

She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul. She is beautiful.

What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?